The Doomfarers of Coramonde (31 page)

On his final
evening at home, a Saturday, he stood at his dresser sorting out his finished
plans. He’d packed his cargo into the Chevy. He looked through the things he’d
decided to leave behind. Insurance and credit cards, car ownership certificate,
Social Security card, proof of membership in this or that organization, address
book, dog tags, draft card, voter registration card, army inoculation, Geneva
Convention, ration and meal cards; all were fanned out on the dresser.

My life in
paper.

He left them,
with the single exception of the driver’s license. In Coramonde they’d mean
nothing. Diplomas, licenses, documents and deeds wouldn’t be as significant as
one bullet. He dropped all his keys, save those for the Chevy, into a drawer.

He lingered
over dinner but ate little. For once there was no dispute with Ralph, but all
his attempts at humor failed. Finally he rose and kissed his mother. “I’m
going. I’ll, umm, I’ll try to keep in touch.”

He shook hands
with his brother, both of them ashamed and regretting that anger had driven
them apart. With a burst of emotion that surprised him, he hugged his father.
Then he drove off into the night, uncertain of the wisdom of it.

He drove slowly
at first, savoring the world around him; but coming to the smoky refineries and
mazed roadways of northern Jersey, he speeded up. For a moment he had a view of
New York City across the Hudson River near the George Washington Bridge. It
looked star-lit and infinitely inviting, an enchanted realm to rival Coramonde.
He’d been there a number of times, and knew differently.

He hunted up a
motel near the Grossen Institute and slept until the next day, waking just
before noon.

He called
Morrows who, when Gil identified himself, said it was arranged, then hung up.
Good.
That means he’ll be somewhere else when I break in, and have a cover story.

He dressed in a
khaki shirt, wash-faded denim pants and jacket and his weather-beaten boots,
and checked out. He spent the afternoon on his stomach near the unused gate,
eating sandwiches and peering through the chain link with binoculars. Once, a
jeep made a slow circuit of the building but no one even bothered going in.
Under the round glass stare of the binoculars his mouth split into a grin.
Perfect.

The Jeep made
another circuit at about five, just as Morrows had said it would, even as he
was preparing to go in. He pulled a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters out of the
car and went to the locked chain securing the gate, then paused for a moment.
If he went ahead, he’d not only commit a serious crime or three, but might also
exile himself irrevocably. Unexpectedly, his thoughts went to the job his
former boss had offered him, to return to the mailroom with a promise of
management training.

“To hell with
that!” Gil MacDonald realized in that moment that he wouldn’t have cared to be
president of the company. He much preferred to seek Coramonde and something
that might be called adventure. He fumbled the heavy snips into place.

Getting the
gate open was difficult, but he persevered. Leaving the car where it was, he
ran across the open field to the lab and jimmied the door by main force with a
small crowbar. He propped the broken door closed, raised the delivery door and
dashed back to his car. He drove into the building without incident, not
forgetting to close the gate behind him, and pulled up next to the contiguity
framework.

He ran through
the preoperative sequence, satisfied that all instruments appeared to be
working correctly, though he doubted that he could spot it if they weren’t. He
connected the heavy cables and was about to activate the interface between
universes when a voice behind him said, “The deal was for you to leave this
mysterious information of yours behind when you departed.”

Morrows, of
course. Morrows with a Luger in his hand. Then Gil saw that it wasn’t actually
one of the German military pistols, but an imitation model, probably a .22
caliber.

“The deal,” Gil
said calmly to hide his dismay, “was for you to be somewhere else while I ran
this stunt.”

The researcher
laughed nervously. “Should I be? I’d be a fool then, wouldn’t I?”

“Gad, has all
trust gone out of the world?” asked Gil. He wished bitterly that he had a gun
with him instead of having left his in the car.

Morrows ignored
the crack. “Now you’re through blowing smoke at me. I want answers and I won’t
wait for them. You’d have a lot of explaining to do to the cops.”

Gil stepped
closer to him.
Time to shoot craps, man.

“And if I tell
you to shove it? You gonna shoot me with that miserable plinking gun? What’s in
it, twenty-two shorts? Even if it’s hollowpoints, you sure you’ll stop
me?
Cause
if you don’t, your damned head’s getting ripped right off, Jack.” He hoped he’d
read Morrows right.

The other was
confused, suddenly seeing clearly that a gun isn’t a magic wand—wave it and
anyone else must obey. A man with a gun must be ready to use it, and he wasn’t.
He let his pistol and confidence waver for a moment, and Gil kicked the gun
sideways with the inside of his foot, karate fashion, and followed up with a
quick hand combination, sending his opponent reeling. Gil hopped once and
uncorked a snapping side-kick to the crotch that bent Morrows double in the
old, old reflex, and was instantly behind him securing Hadaka-jime, the forearm
choke. The other struggled for a moment, then relaxed as the ferocious hold cut
off wind and blood to the brain. Gil maintained it until he was sure that his
victim would be out awhile, then gradually loosened it, watching for a ruse.

He hadn’t been
totally unprepared for this. From his glove compartment he took a broad roll of
surgical tape. He bound the unconscious man tightly but left him ungagged and
lugged him to a tree by the road leading to Institute Administration. He judged
that Morrows would be safe here and be quickly found when Security came to
check out the rumpus he planned to make.

He returned and
took two more items from the trunk of his car. From Explosive Ordnance
Disposal, demolitions specialists and others he’d met in the service, Gil had
picked up a fair knowledge of explosives and even obtained manuals. It was
startling to find out how easy it was to produce one’s own mercury fulminate
for blasting caps, make blasting gelatin, TNT and a dozen or more types of
dynamite, not to mention low explosives. With small investment and considerable
risk, he’d built two explosive devices. They’d been his primary worry on the
way up from Philly, but he’d been fairly confident they’d take the trip safely.
Each had a basic alarm clock timer. He set them for one minute, placing one
under the control console and the other beneath the programming bank, not
bothering to tamp them. He felt a twinge of conscience at the destruction
they’d cause, but he had to erase his trail and destroy the prototype machine.
He could see the damaged party only as the faceless Institute. With this
rationalization, he went on with his work.

He started the
Chevy. Leaving the engine running, he threw the switch to activate the
apparatus. Again the landscape of Coramonde snapped into view. He started each
of the alarm clocks, jumped into his car and gunned it through the interface
into Coramonde.

He didn’t stop
directly beyond the contiguity, but pulled off to one side to avoid flying
debris from the impending explosion and halted twenty yards away. He shut off
the motor and waited. Thinking to scan for any company in the area, he
remembered he’d left the binoculars hanging in their case by the fence at the
Institute and made a grossly offensive remark about them. Would there be
fingerprints? Hell with ’em; going back was out of the question. He regretted
the loss as he waited.

Thirty seconds
filed past and the contiguity spewed forth a ludicrous tongue of flame which
seemed, from his angle, to spout from nowhere and end abruptly. Much of the
force of the blast had probably been cut off when the machinery was destroyed
and the gateway disappeared. In other words, he’d succeeded in sabotaging his
only sure way home.

You’re a
Doomfarer now, son. Whoopee!

He shucked off
his jacket, drew the Browning from under the Chevy’s front seat and shrugged on
the shoulder holster. He spotted what had to be the streambed Van Duyn had
described to him, and started the car again. In the distance he saw the village
the scholar must have spotted that first evening, but it looked deserted and
burned out.

The downgrade
to the streambed was steep but he took it in first gear and let the
transmission work for him. Wear and tear didn’t matter; he’d never use the car
again. The stream was a wide, shallow flow with broad, sandy banks. He stopped
under a willow and shut the engine off for the last time. Taking his trench
knife, a relic of WWI with a foot-long blade and brass knuckles on the grip, he
began cutting down shrubbery and branches to conceal the Chevy.

He began to
sing:

“I’m a rambler,
I’m a gambler,

I’m a long ways
from home,

And them as
don’t like me

Can leave me alone…”

He was sweating
hard and had removed his shirt by the time he artfully placed a final branch
just so. He’d taken the carbine from the trunk and left it on the front seat,
and now he squeezed in past his camouflage and bided his time.

It was dark by the
time the sound of hoofbeats came to him. He flicked the carbine’s safety off
and silently opened the window wider, poking the barrel through the loophole
he’d left himself and aligning it directly out before him in practiced
night-marksman form. The moon wasn’t especially bright, but seconds later he
made out a party of riders. They halted at a bend in the stream, difficult to
make out at thirty yards and not a promising target. He was unworried; friends
or enemies, they’d have no firearms.

He jammed thumb
and forefinger into his mouth, gave a piercing whistle. With impressive speed
they traced the sound and ranged themselves around the overhanging willow. They
were seven, with two extra riderless horses. Six held lances or drawn bows. The
seventh, coming forward, said in a warm female voice, “If you are Gil
MacDonald, name your metal machine to me, from which Chaffinch was slain. But
if you are not, make your peace with your gods.”

He laughed.
“Hey, hey, cut me some slack Baby-cakes; its name was
Lobo.
How’re
long-term parking rates around here?”

The joke was
lost on her.

Yet all
experience is an arch wherethrough

Gleams the
untravelled world.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON,

“Ulysses”

THEY dismounted in haste. Gil
slid from his car to meet them. The woman who’d spoken, plainly in command, was
dressed in helmet and mail. He could make out little else in the dark except
that the top of her helm reached just above his eyes.

“Are you in readiness
to accompany us?” she asked formally.

He had a
hundred questions but held them. Instead, he said,
“Semper paratus,”
and
began to bring out the Chevy’s cargo. Much of it they bundled onto one
riderless horse, which was fitted with a pack frame. The rest they divvied
among them, except for Gil’s personal things and weapons. He wondered at the
care with which they handled the books, almost a reverence, and began to
understand Van Duyn’s liking of his Promethean role.

He put on his
shirt and jacket and fastened his pistol belt with holstered Mauser around his
waist. He loosened the sling of the carbine as much as he could and slipped it
over his head and shoulder. The rest of his possessions were in two small packs
fastened at either side of the saddle of the other spare horse. He mounted
awkwardly.

He bade the old
Chevy farewell, but doubted it would.

They started,
the girl leading and Gil right behind, and he could tell from the first that
the others were holding their pace down to accommodate him. They rode without
difficulty in the scarce light and he got the impression they could have ridden
full tilt without trouble. His own riding style was more the Sunday-afternoon
variety, but he hung in doggedly, rifle slapping his back, and did his best to
keep up.

They rode for
much of the night with no word except to change point men. He thought of
offering to take a turn but decided that it would be as useless as one of these
horsemen trying to con
Lobo
for him. They used narrow trails and game
tracks, frequently cutting overland with many a backward glance. He knew that
they must want to get away from the area of the contiguity. A wise move; the
sound of the blast might have attracted attention, and sooner or later the car
would be found.

They stopped
after long hours without a break and made a primitive bivouac, leg-hobbling
their horses—Gil had to be shown how to do it—and throwing themselves down on
the ground to catch precious sleep. He thought about introducing himself, or at
least engaging the girl in conversation, but they didn’t look interested; he
let it pass. He, too, was tired and used to roughing it—if not quite in this
way—and had no trouble falling asleep.

Awakening was
another matter. He’d stiffened up; leg muscles protested their unaccustomed
strain and refused to respond. He tried to ignore them after doing a few quick
exercises to loosen them. He saw that his horse was already saddled and his
companions were almost prepared to leave.

He took the
opportunity to scope them out. The men were tough-looking, clad in woolens and
scale armor. They carried lances and short bows, straight swords and small
shields of leather-covered wood rimmed with iron. He saw that they were
equipped for speed and maneuverability rather than heavy fighting.